


White Room with Black Curtains

by Kabal42



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Depression, Introspection, M/M, Purple Prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-27
Updated: 2005-09-27
Packaged: 2018-02-06 05:23:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1845868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kabal42/pseuds/Kabal42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Originally written for LJ's AWDT challenge.<br/>This work was translated into Italian by eloorie and can be found here:  http://lnx.silverblood.net/NA/viewstory.php?sid=1167</p>
    </blockquote>





	White Room with Black Curtains

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for LJ's AWDT challenge.  
> This work was translated into Italian by eloorie and can be found here: http://lnx.silverblood.net/NA/viewstory.php?sid=1167

He looked out the window in his room. It was raining. It always rained when he did that. It was a summer rain; he could smell it. The window was open just a crack and the bitter-sweet smell of summer rain on summer grass, which had recently been cut, was trying to intrude on his privacy. It was a summer rain.  
It smelled like Harry’s hair.  
The rain made things soft and nice, black and white, like Harry’s hair and his own skin. He looked out the window for a long time.

A ray of sun burst through the skies and it pierced his soul with its mocking display of the world. Too stark and bare, too sharp and white and never with the softness. He hated it and turned his back on it. Hid under the sheets on his bed. They were black as well and soft and silky like Harry’s hair. Harry’s hair smelled like the summer rain.

‘Don’t you think you should get up soon, sweetheart?’ His mother’s voice was soft and wrapping like the cotton around his heart. He hated it and hated her white hair, as white as his own.  
‘No,’ he said without ever looking at her. His eyes stayed shut.  
‘The war is almost over, the Dark Lord is on retreat. The weather is nice. You should go outside; I think it’s safe. See the sun and the trees,’ she suggested and the kindness stabbed like a million needles. He didn’t answer her. She didn’t see that the sun was wrenching white and the trees where shearing grey. He pulled the sheets over his head again.

When he woke next time it was raining again and he looked and he smelled and he remembered. He cried. His tears fell like summer rain on white skin.

The room was dark. He had pulled the curtains shut to keep out the painful colours. He longed for the rain.  
There were steps in the corridor and he wanted to lock the door, but he was too exhausted to do it. She would go away again if he didn’t answer.  
The steps entered the room and he didn’t turn to look. A vague scent of summer rain, like the most delicate perfume, brushed his cheek. He turned and saw that Harry’s eyes were green.  
He sat up and lips brushed his. Lips that were red like blood and sweet and not bitter at all. Blue jeans torn by war, green t-shirt smeared with ash. Then only soft tan skin. His sheets were purple like the bruises on Harry’s skin - they hadn’t been before. And Harry’s hair was black and smelled like the summer rain.  
Tan skin on white, black hair mixed with white, softening and smoothing. Hard flesh and soft skin, pushing and drifting and wet and warm. Harry was on him and in him and he wanted more and more and more. To never stop, to never go back where there were no green eyes, only white stabbing sun.  
They were wet and dripping like the summer rain, and the mixed wetness held them together on a sea of purple silk.  
Draco didn’t want to close his eyes again. He wanted to see the colours that were Harry. Never white again.  
Harry’s hair was black and smelled like the summer rain.  
Outside the trees were as green as Harry’s eyes that shone on him now, relaxed and comforting and wrapped around him.  
The sun was golden like the ring on Harry’s hand. Not white.  
His own skin was ivory, he realised, and his hair was silver. Not white. Never white again.


End file.
